I Kissed a Drunk Bloke
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: Hermione walks home from work and suddenly meets her old potions master, Severus Snape. Gasp. Definitely a shocker, that. AU. Post DH, but Snape miraculously survives somehow. Oneshot unedited. HGSS.


_A little AU bit I thought would be moderately depressing. Tragic, but kinda real. Enjoy!_

_Ok, I'm going to confess, this is the crappiest thing I've put up in months. But I'm still putting it up. It has my classic problem of ending too fast once the action is through. Ah well. _

_Disclaimer: I am not kidding when I say that I am not J.K.

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**I Kissed a Drunk Bloke**

Hermione walked down a street in Westminster in a very bustling manner, scratching her head and turning over a bunch of papers she had compiled for a case in Wizengamot. As an attorney and secretary to the Minister of Magic, she was quite a busy woman with much to do, no time for tea except that horrid orange stuff that came from machines in the office. She eagerly awaited having a fresh cup of her very good Earl Grey when she arrived to her flat.

She passed a very cheerfully-crowded pub known as The Sherlock Holmes, with its black iron tables and austere front just embellished with a few potted petunias. Paying no heed to it—for she went by it nearly every day—she was suddenly caught the sight of a familiar face.

"Professor Snape!"

He blinked at her dismally, tightening his muffler and raising a wary eyebrow. Evidentially, he just had emerged from the pub, for he stood in its immediate entrance.

"Miss Granger, is it?"

The masterful stride of his that she so admired in her student years seemed to have lost its master, for he seemed to approach her relatively slowly.

"What brings you to London, Professor?"

"Holiday, what else?" he sneered in his conventional manner. "McGonagall cares very little about my good cheer during the Christmas season, and thus has let me out, you might say, for the duration of the break. It's a much more pleasant arrangement than when Albus was around, I must say—old dweeb used to try and push me under the mistletoe with unsuspecting ladies and give me pink socks with hearts on them and a whole lot of other rubbish that would purportedly make me 'happy'. The fool."

She would never admit to him in a thousand years how much she missed his criticality and cynicism since her graduation three years ago. _I thought I would get over this school-girl's crush . . . but I don't believe I have._

"You headed my way?" she asked politely. "I haven't had tea yet; you could stop by if you don't have other engagements."

"I am headed wherever I care to be headed," he replied a bit wistfully, brushing a stray hair out of his face. "I could do with a spot of tea, though maybe something stronger might be better with this cold."

. . line . .

She had some whiskey left over from the last party she had thrown for Ron. Hermione would not have served it normally, but the party had been a much wilder affair than she anticipated--seemed that everyone she invited brought along another half-dozen guests--and someone had also contrived a good deal of firewhiskey. And left it in her apartment.

Not taking any for herself, she poured her much-coveted tea and put a partial glass of her old professor's preferred beverage before him.

" . . . Students prickly as ever," he mused, continuing the tirade that followed the 'so, how have you been of late?' from Hermione. His nose wrinkled as he smelt the whiskey. "Cheap stuff."

"I don't have anything else, sorry."

"No matter." He downed it in a gulp and continued. "Trelawney still makes out that I'm the one that the stars predicted for her. Old looney. She doesn't realize how little she's missing."

He poured himself another glass—full this time—and finished it ravenously.

"In your place, I'd be just as disgusted," Hermione laughed, though becoming slightly worried at the 'how little she's missing' part.

"I'm more than disgusted, Miss Granger. I'm appalled, revolted, and overwrought. Despicable what old hags can do to one's mental facilities." He settled back on the sofa next to her, though careful not to graze her shoulder even slightly. "That's the only bit of me worth a fig, and I prefer that my mind remain unscathed from such odious images as the woman has anticipated between us."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Hermione supposed, "She'll probably get over it rather soon."

"Hum. I wish she would, but she's been afflicted with a craving for my presence since my advent as a teacher at Hogwarts. Which, since it was the same year we began, was ever since she started as well."

"Oh." Hermione did not know what to say. Then she gambled._ He's here in my flat, that's a good start. It's just like I've always dreamed. Maybe he has a similar reason to mine for wanting to be here . . . maybe I can delve into his actual feelings and emotions._

"But . . . but how are you . . . yourself . . . since the war? You're telling me how everyone else is faring, really. That whole thing with Lily Evans . . . I'm dreadfully sorry about that." She was embarrassed now. Just the sort of thing she would do, in her own romantic endeavor; bring up the other woman.

"Lily?"

He seemed puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. "She's dead, you know. Can't touch her."

She wondered if he meant 'touch' in metaphorical or literal sense. Either way, it was dreadfully sexy, at least to her.

Later, she thought of a thousand better comebacks. _But you can touch me. I'm not dead. I'm alive, though. _But she did not use any of them. Instead, stupidly, she asked:

"Is everything okay with you, then?"

He seemed to muse over that a moment. "No, no, no; everything's just fine."

Then he suddenly leaned forward and kissed her.

It was not like what she expected. The taste of whiskey was on his tongue and breath, and it was sour as Hermione inhaled it. He was not an exceptionally great kisser either, for what that was worth; he was not as demanding or forceful as she had imagined in her fantasies. Almost gentle, really, his arm coming around her neck and pressing her to him almost as though she were a strange and exotic animal. Maybe a ghost. It was passionate, she could not deny, but there was something strange about it.

Then she realized. His eyes were stark open. (Hers were not, by the way; she peeked very discreetly through her lashes.) That was the queer thing about the situation. His eyes gazed into her, but he did not seem to be perceiving her. It was as though he was lost in another world in his head, and he was simply kissing her because he was kissing someone else in that other world.

She pulled away; it did not seem quite right. She felt rather spooked by the experience, even though it was one she so desired for so long.

"Let's save this for some other time," she suggested perilously.

"No, no, this is perfect!" exclaimed Severus almost angrily. But, in reconciliation, he nodded his head and leaned into the nape of her neck. "Everything is better when you are here."

She thought a moment.

"How many drinks did you have before in the pub?" she asked patiently.

"Oh, five or something. They sent me away because they thought it so unnatural that a man could still stand after so many so quick."

"You're drunk."

He sighed. "I thought so."

They sat in a mutual silence for a while. Soon his quiet snores resounded in her ear, and, with minimal movement, she turned on the tube with the remote.

As it happened, a scene from _Casablanca _showed upon the screen; Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart were united in a triumphant kiss in a darkish room.

"She's just playing with you, Rick, don't believe her for an instant!"Hermione whispered under her breath, then sighed.

"This is god-awful affair," she said aloud, then flicked off the television. Then Hermione unwound her old professor's arms from around hers, slipping out of the room.

She still wanted him, but she wanted him to be completely hers. Maybe things would be different in the morning.

. . .line . . .

Next morning, he was gone. He had not loved her, of course. She was just convenient for a taste of a snog. Or something. She did not quite understand it herself. So much had almost happened, she felt . . . but it would not have been right at all.

She never did learn how it might have gone, of course. Predictably, he died of liver poisoning not a year later. At least, that's what they said.

She thought he did himself in, though.

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_Wow. That was not as good as I wanted. Well, I was trying to portray real life. And this was just too sad for me to expend much more effort. By Jove, I hate real life._


End file.
